by Gavin, Rohan
Knightley’s eyes lit up. “You mean you know where it is?”
“I know more than that,” said Darkus enigmatically. “I know everything . . .”
Knightley looked at his son, mystified for the first time.
Jackie watched as a squad of bumbling policemen marched through the house, scribbling on their notepads. She had been married to a private investigator long enough to know these local officers of the law would have trouble locating their own shoelaces, let alone her son.
Nearby, Clive sat slumped in an armchair, still in his pajamas, his head in his hands.
A burly man in uniform approached Jackie with his pen poised. “Chief Inspector Draycott, ma’am,” he announced. “Now, you say you believe the boy’s father is the kidnapper,” he said, stroking the thin mustache under his nose.
“I never used the word ‘kidnap,’” she responded.
“What about ‘carjack’?” Clive piped up from his chair.
“Shut up, Clive,” she said firmly. “He might not have left if you’d kept your mouth shut.”
Chief Inspector Draycott made another note. Clive grimaced.
“He’s not answering his phone,” Jackie said anxiously. “He always answers his phone.”
“Then exactly what crime would you like to report?” Draycott inquired.
“A missing kid. A missing car. And a man who may have taken leave of his senses,” explained Jackie.
Draycott thought carefully about how to word this last piece of testimony. As he returned to scribbling, Tilly brushed by indifferently. The others cleared a path as she marched up the staircase looking decidedly unimpressed. One officer made a note, but struggled to describe the color of her hair. The end of his pencil broke, and he gave up.
Tilly reached the top of the stairs to find two hard-faced policemen who appeared to be conducting their own search of the upper floors, independently of the rest. One of the men was tall and lean, the other short and stocky. She watched unnoticed as they exchanged a conspiratorial glance, then slipped into Darkus’s bedroom, quietly closing the door behind them. Moments later, one of them poked his head out to check that the coast was clear, then they exited onto the landing, only to see Tilly’s silhouette watching from the safe distance of her own bedroom doorway. The men stopped dead in their tracks and smiled at her, but remained frozen a moment too long.
“We’ll be going now,” said the taller policeman.
Tilly didn’t respond; she just examined them suspiciously.
“Take care, then,” the stockier policeman announced, then descended the stairs. His partner gave him a pointed look, and they rejoined their colleagues as they filed out of the house.
Tilly watched them go without saying a word.
Outside, Chief Inspector Draycott stood at the front door with Jackie and Clive, then turned to address the ranks assembled in the predawn light: “I have promised Clive and Jackie here that we’ll find her son,” he proclaimed, then glanced at Clive, adding, “and their car.” Clive nodded eagerly. “I intend to keep that promise,” said Draycott, raising a gloved finger prophetically. “Ladies and gents, file your reports and begin your inquiries. We have work to do.”
Knightley couldn’t take his eyes off his son, finding the preceding twenty minutes almost impossible to comprehend.
Having finally gotten his father’s undivided attention, Darkus fought the temptation to revel in it and soberly continued his account.
“I found it in the attic, then connected it to my computer and started reading,” Darkus explained. “I didn’t understand it all at first—some of it took years—but I persisted, and by last summer I’d been through most of the case studies—skimming over the less interesting crimes, of course.”
“Of course,” said Knightley, raising his eyebrows.
“And, well, I soon found I had a little knowledge about a lot of things,” said Darkus.
Knightley studied his son as a scientist studies a newly discovered species, not quite believing his eyes.
Darkus carried on, apparently unaware of the effect he was having. “And to my surprise I found myself detecting things . . . ,” he added. “Seeing the world the way you must have.”
“I don’t want you to see the world the way I do,” said Knightley. “I don’t want that at all.”
Darkus felt his throat tighten with emotion at the idea that all his efforts had somehow had the reverse effect: that he’d pushed his dad farther away instead of bringing the two of them closer. He swallowed hard, then went on.
“Reading it helped me understand . . . why you were the way you were.”
“I know the way I was,” his father responded. “I know I could be hard on you. I was silent, morose, inaccessible. I disappeared upstairs for days at a time.” He paused, losing himself in his own memories for a moment, then added by way of explanation, “The truth is, I loved you and your mother, but I couldn’t allow anything to bias my judgment, to compromise my ability to reason soundly. Emotions have no place in what I do. For better or worse, that was my life. But I never wanted it for you. Never.”
Darkus looked down, sensing his worst fears confirmed: for all his good intentions and long hours of study, he’d simply done something wrong.
Knightley lowered his head into his hands, muttering incoherently and smoothing the hair away from his brows. “The game is afoot,” he said as though it were a mantra. “There’s no time for this.”
“Dad? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Darkus watched him rocking in his seat, looking almost as if he were reentering the state from which he’d so recently emerged. “Dad,” he ventured. “I can help.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You don’t understand. I really can.”
“If you think this is going to be some kind of Take Your Child to Work Day, well, you’re even crazier than I am,” Knightley snipped.
“In the Knowledge you wrote, ‘Reasoning is to construct at least two theories explaining why an event took place,’” stated Darkus, “‘until the most logical explanation presents itself.’”
“And?”
“I can be your second theory. The other half of your brain.”
“Over my dead body. You’re not getting any deeper into this than you already are.” Knightley shook his head. “It’s time to stop this nonsense, retrieve the Knowledge, and get you back home where you belong.”
“That might be a little difficult,” said Darkus, spotting something through the office window on the street below. “They’re taking the car.”
Knightley went to the window to see the Jaguar being lifted off the double yellow line by the mechanical arm of a massive tow truck.
“I see law enforcement has at least improved in some areas,” he remarked.
“What are we going to do now?” said Darkus.
“We’ll use mine.”
Knightley led Darkus out of the front door of number 27 and around the corner onto another terraced street. He had changed into a herringbone coat, corduroy trousers, and a tweed hat uncannily resembling Darkus’s own outfit. Darkus half expected his dad to take his hand, then remembered he was too old for that now.
Knightley approached a break in the sidewalk where a cobbled path led behind the houses. Darkus followed him down the alley toward a row of narrow, dilapidated garages. Knightley produced a key and unlocked the padlock of a garage door daubed with peeling black paint. He discarded the padlock and yanked up the door to reveal a dark yet familiar shape, covered in cobwebs. It was a classic London black cab: a Fairway, to be exact.
“Did you work as a cabbie?” inquired Darkus.
“Nope. But around twenty thousand other people do. It’s the perfect disguise.” Knightley opened the door, flipped down the visor, and caught the car keys as they dropped into his palm. He popped the hood and walked around the cab to inspect the engine. “Of course, I made a few modifications . . .” He blew a huge cobweb off the engine block, re
connected the battery, returned to the dashboard, and keyed the ignition. The Fairway rumbled to life with a sound unlike any Darkus had heard from a black cab before. It sounded more like one of the high-performance cars that Clive reviewed on his TV program.
Knightley revved the engine, sending clouds of dust billowing out the garage door. “Rover V8,” he said with a smile. “First time, every time.” The orange Taxi light flickered to life. Knightley opened the rear passenger door for Darkus. “Where to, sir?”
Darkus grinned and got into the backseat. “Just drive.”
“Home it is,” replied Knightley, putting the cab in reverse and accelerating out of the alley in a halo of dust.
Chapter 7
The Department of the Unexplained
Darkus watched London grind to life as his dad navigated the city, blending seamlessly with the other black cabs carrying suits to work. Darkus sat back and took a moment to absorb recent events. He watched the fare increase on the meter over the dashboard and couldn’t help thinking that every increment was taking him farther away from the new world he’d discovered and closer back to the old world of Clive and his mom. It was a sinking feeling that he couldn’t reason with.
He was roused from his meditation by the blare of a car horn behind them. They were at a set of traffic lights, but although the light was green, the cab hadn’t moved.
“Dad, it’s green,” said Darkus through the glass divider.
His father didn’t answer.
“Dad . . . ?”
Knightley’s voice crackled through the cabin’s intercom speaker: “Not now, Darkus. I’m thinking.” His ears seemed to lift, and his eyes gazed off into the middle distance.
The driver behind them leaned on the horn again, holding it down until the pitch wavered and complained. Darkus sank deeper into his seat with embarrassment.
Then he realized what his father was looking at. A line of red London buses extended ahead of them, each displaying its route number on the back in large digits: 14, 49, 70, 74.
Knightley appeared to be mouthing the numbers to himself, oblivious to the cacophony of horns that was reaching a crescendo behind him. It was as if the numbers meant something, but Knightley couldn’t decipher what.
“Er, Dad? Maybe we should pull over?”
The traffic light changed back to red, and there was a temporary lull in the horns. Knightley kept looking dead ahead.
“The Combination, Doc . . . ,” Knightley said through the intercom. “We’re getting closer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know . . . ,” Knightley replied honestly, his eyes glazed over with moisture, as if the stress was too much for him.
Darkus examined his father’s haunted face in the rearview mirror. “Talk to me. What are you seeing, Dad?”
“Numbers,” said Knightley.
“What do they mean?” urged Darkus.
“I have no idea!” he shouted impatiently.
Suddenly the light turned green, and before the cars could sound their horns, Knightley threw the cab into gear and lurched away.
Darkus was thrown back in his seat, watching his father anxiously.
“Don’t worry, Doc. I’m okay.”
“Has this got something to do with your . . . episode?”
“Are you trying to say I’m crazy?”
“No, I’m trying to understand,” said Darkus. “What’s the last thing you remember before you lost consciousness?”
“Numbers, Doc. A set of numbers.”
“What kind of numbers?”
“I wish I knew,” admitted Knightley. “Maybe it’s not meant to add up. Maybe it’s something I’m not meant to remember . . . ,” he said, spooked.
“We’ll work it out, Dad,” Darkus assured him. “Together.”
“Whatever happens, don’t let them take me back to Shrubwoods. Understand? It’s not safe there anymore.”
“I promise.”
“And not a word to your mother, all right?”
“Okay, Dad.”
The city was soon replaced by the suburbs, which were in turn replaced by the stretch of highway and the inevitable exit ramp. By the time the meter read £200.20, Knightley was turning onto Wolseley Close. They parked at the corner several houses away and sat with the engine idling. A ray of sunshine lit up the symmetrical lawns and tidy flower beds. Knightley admired the view longingly for a moment, then turned around and slid open the glass divider.
“This is your stop, Doc.”
“Do I have to, Dad?”
“Yes, I’m afraid you do,” he replied. “I suggest you enter through the back garden unseen. Retrieve the Knowledge and pass it to me over the side wall.”
“Aren’t you going to at least say hello to Mom?”
“Not this time,” he answered. “I’ve got work to do.”
On hearing those words, Darkus understood there was no point arguing any further. Knightley pressed a button, and the doors unlocked with a heavy click.
Darkus stepped onto the street and hesitated, seeing everything with fresh eyes: Wolseley Close was both happy and sad, like a treasured piece of clothing he’d suddenly grown out of. He lowered his head and walked away from the cab, until he noticed something odd: a small black cone with a silver shield on it appeared to be hovering behind a nearby hedge. Darkus’s catastrophizer went into overdrive as he detected several more cones hidden in the undergrowth at vantage points along the street.
“Dad!” he shouted.
Knightley stamped on the accelerator and roared into the kind of tight U-turn only a London cab could perform, but his path was instantly blocked by an arriving police car. Officers leaped out of every available car door, more of them emerging from the undergrowth. Knightley threw the cab into reverse, only to find another police car behind him, cutting him off. Knightley rested his hands on the steering wheel in defeat.
A policeman grabbed Darkus and hoisted him onto the sidewalk as half a dozen officers pulled the cab door open and dragged Knightley out, pinning him to the ground.
“Dad!!!” Darkus yelled.
“It’s okay, Doc,” Knightley replied from underneath the writhing mass of uniforms.
Darkus struggled as he was escorted to the house. A burly shape stepped out of a police sedan and approached the throng.
“Hello, Alan,” said Draycott, trying to conceal the smile under his mustache.
“Inspector Draycott,” replied Knightley, glancing up.
“Chief Inspector,” he corrected him. “I thought you were having yourself a well-earned rest?”
“Well, I woke up with this irrepressible urge to get back to work.”
“Not if I’ve got anything to do with it.” Draycott nodded to his officers, who promptly handcuffed Knightley and hauled him to his feet. “This is a nice, quiet community of decent, law-abiding people. It’s been a haven of peace and tranquillity since you’ve been away. We don’t need you coming around scaring everyone with your . . . ideas.”
“Chief Inspector Draycott,” Knightley began, “you’ve never been the brightest spark in the police force, but I believe you’ve always been a loyal servant of the law. So I’ll ask you to let me go and allow me to do my job unmolested.”
“I don’t approve of your methods, Knightley, and I don’t approve of you. You’ve already left a trail of terrified seniors at Shrubwoods Hospice. Not to mention Clive and Jackie here. In light of the evidence, I’m going to recommend the doctors put you under observation for a few weeks, maybe a month. Make sure you’re not getting up to anything . . . dodgy,” said Draycott with relish.
“That would be detrimental to the forces of law and order, an insult to your already limited intelligence, and a serious risk to the fate of the case I’m currently working on.”
“And that is . . . ?” Draycott inquired.
Knightley paused, then lowered his voice. “An organization I believe to be responsible for almost every unexplained crime, both great and small, in t
owns and cities across the country, maybe across Europe, and possibly even the world.”
“Oh, is that all?” quipped Draycott.
“I didn’t expect for one second you’d believe me, but if you’ll allow me access to my former home, I’ll be glad to show you the evidence.”
Draycott stifled a laugh. “I think I’d like to see this evidence,” he said skeptically, then turned to his uniformed colleagues. “Chaps, indulge me.”
The officers fell into line behind him—all except for a taller one and a stockier one, who exchanged a knowing glance and returned to their police car.
Darkus was already waiting on the driveway, instructing a weary officer, “I wasn’t kidnapped. I volunteered to go. To help.”
“Of course you did.”
“Sweetie!” Jackie cried out, running from the front door and grabbing Darkus in an embrace. “Don’t ever do that again . . . Ever.” She held him tight.
Draycott marched Knightley up the driveway. Darkus disengaged himself and turned to face his father’s captor. “If you use excessive force on this vulnerable man, recently recovered from a serious medical condition, I won’t hesitate to make sure you’re disciplined to the full extent of the law,” he advised him.
Draycott straightened up in surprise. “Duly noted.”
Knightley looked up, seeing his former wife, and smiled. “Hello, Jackie.”
Jackie seemed unsure how to react. “Hello, Alan.” She smoothed an errant hair behind her ear.
“Hello, Alan,” echoed Clive, appearing behind her on the lawn. “Where’s my car, Alan?” he demanded.
“Ah . . . yes,” Knightley muttered under his breath.
“Is it okay?”
“It corners impeccably, Clive.”
“Is it okay, Alan?” Clive half shouted.
“You’ll find it in the capable hands of Transport for London.” Knightley turned to Draycott. “Shall we proceed?”
Draycott reluctantly waved him on, but Clive blocked the doorway in protest.
“Mr. Knightley just wants to show us something before we take him away,” the inspector explained.
“Jackie . . . ?” Clive urged, shaking his head fervently.